


He Wonders Why

by CanadianIce



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Eating Disorders, Fast Food, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV First Person, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:28:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3275021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianIce/pseuds/CanadianIce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So we watched Alfred being denied access to the kid section of McDonalds.<br/>Naturally, we all laughed. It was pretty a good-natured laughing, I think.</p><p>Then, Arthur posed me a question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Wonders Why

So we watched Alfred being denied access to the kid section of McDonalds.  
Naturally, we all laughed. It was pretty a good-natured laughing, I think.

Then, Arthur posed me a question.

"Why do you let him eat that much, anyways? Isn't that unhealthy?"

I took a moment to examine Alfred. He wasn't _that_ fat, and honestly, whatever he did have was minor. He seemed more than happy at the moment, having some jokesome argument with a child far young. The thing is, he looked youthful. Not large and sickly.

At least, I thought so.

And of course there was Francis, always one to invite himself on these excursions, then complain about making the poor decision of hanging out with 'Anglo types'. It was only natural for him to follow up when I didn't respond. I really should've, but by then I was thinking too far out and Alfred's dorkish behaviour was too far interesting.

"You shouldn't let him do that to himself, if you really love him."

Ouch. There goes my heart. Congratulations.

"I do love him, though."

"Then show him some respect and stop taking him to these places!" Arthur contributed, motioning to the burger sitting untouched on the tray in front of him. "They don't even have cutlery."

If I hadn't known better, and if I'd been just a little bit younger, I would have misread their intentions and thrown a punch right then. I don't really see myself as the overprotective type, or a jealous one, but if his tone had been different by just a notch, I would have been angry.

Of course, I kept my calm. It was something I prided myself in, and others needed me to do.

"I don't just drag him here, you know." I stopped myself for a moment, realizing that my own voice was rising. "He wants to."

"You're hurting him."

There was a little bird on the parking lot outside - whenever we went to the particular store, we always chose the one table near the window because not many enjoyed being either baked or frozen. I never minded such things, of course, though often Francis would complain. A robin, light brown with a flaming patch of red on its chest I always thought was inspiring - perhaps we can all learn from the little robin, that seemingly dull and ordinary people can possess fiery interiors.

I never replied.

"If I were with him, it'd be different. He wouldn't be encouraged to eat too much, because you don't seem to care."

If helplessness were a colour, it'd be a cross between russet like muted anger, blue like a deep ocean sadness, and green in both envy and desperation. Of course it wouldn't be pretty - putting all the hues together would give an ugly grey thing. Believe me, I've played with the colour mixer enough to know.

So I directed this slimy grey colour at Francis, half knowing he'd confirm with Arthur's statement and half hoping he wouldn't.

"He's right." He told me, quiet because they both hated agreeing with each other. "You're hurting him."

Hurting him, huh?

So I continued to watch 'him' - his name was Alfred - as he bounded back to us, slightly awkward but strong, perhaps with malpractice. It seemed wrong to say after the conversation, but some of it was due to the restrained amount on his training I'd given him.

Am I really hurting him?

* * *

I never stopped thinking about it, even when I found him sprawled over in the bathroom with angry vomit stains and pieces of perhaps the twentieth mirror we'd had to replace scattered around him.

Even when the look he gave me had _'Matthew, I'm terrible'_  all over it, and I rushed to tell him how much he meant.

Even when I helped him up from the floor, despite all the glass and vomit he was getting all over my favourite shirt.

Even when I carried him down the hall because he'd just spontaneously collapsed in exhaustion from whatever he'd done without my knowledge.

Which is exactly why I urge him to eat.

* * *

Am I really hurting him?

 

 


End file.
